A day passed.

  Or something like it.

  The sky hadn’t changed—still that pale, sunless hue—but the world around him had quieted. The blood in the grass had dried. The wolves were long gone. And the wind now moved without tension.

  Nine opened his eyes.

  His breath caught.

  He was alive.

  The weight of that realization didn’t hit like a victory—it hit like a curse. His body ached with every shallow breath, his skin sticky with sweat and old blood. Pain pulsed through his limbs like a reminder of how close he had come.

  “I survived…” The words felt hollow.

  He pushed himself upright—slowly, groaning—and looked around.

  The creature’s body was still there. Crumpled. Motionless.

  Its blood had pooled beneath it, dark and sticky. Its jaw was sck, fangs bared, and from its chest protruded the letter knife, still buried up to the hilt.

  Nine let out a bitter ugh.

  “So how do I taste?” He forced himself to his feet, nearly staggering as his knees buckled. The wounds across his back and thigh pulled with every movement, but they didn’t reopen. Not yet.

  He limped over to the corpse, looking down at the creature with something between contempt and relief.

  Then—with a firm grip—he pulled the knife free.

  The sound was wet. Nasty.

  He wiped the bde on the creature’s fur, then crouched beside the body.

  “Those cws and teeth could be useful…” He hesitated.

  Not out of pity—there was none left in him—but out of pure human revulsion. Carving up corpses wasn’t something he ever imagined doing. But this pce didn’t care what he imagined.

  It only cared whether he adapted.

  He began with the hands.

  The cws came off with some effort, the joints tough but brittle under the knife. Dark blood clung to his fingers. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat.

  Then the teeth—ripped one by one from the upper jaw. Sharp. Durable. Maybe magical. He didn’t know.

  But they were worth keeping.

  By the time he stood, the pouch at his side jingled softly with grim trophies.

  His hands trembled. His face was pale.

  “Feels like metal…” He turned to search for his sword.

  It y embedded in the mountain wall, lodged so deep into the rock that the impact had cratered the stone. He approached, gripped the hilt, and pulled.

  The outer yer crumbled.

  Stone fell away, fking in chunks, until something gleamed beneath.

  A bde.

  A true sword—elegant but simple. Forged of a pale, silvery metal with a slight blue sheen, its edge sharp as a whisper. Strange markings traced the fuller—glowing faintly, pulsing with some unknowable power.

  Nine stared in awe.

  “Someone sealed this thing in stone…” He looked up at the wall, saw the deep impact crater, then back to the fallen creature.

  “If you hadn’t underestimated me, that throw would’ve killed me.” The realization chilled him.

  That thing was small—but strong. Intelligent. Dangerous.

  And if it wasn’t the leader…

  What the hell lived in that cave?

  He sheathed the new sword, wiped sweat and blood from his brow, and turned to look at the yawning cave mouth behind him.

  He was tempted to go in. Tempted to see what y beyond.

  But his wounds still ached. His stomach gnawed with hunger. His limbs screamed for rest.

  “Not yet…” He turned away and limped home.

  The mansion stood quiet.

  Unmoving. Eternal.

  As Nine stepped through the gate and into the garden, the statues lining the path seemed to stare at him with new eyes. Not in judgment. Not in pity.

  But in silence. Recognition.

  The man who returned was not the same one who’d left.

  His legs barely held him upright. Blood crusted his clothes, dried bck across his arms and chest. His bandages were soaked. But he walked tall, sword sheathed at his back, pouch clinking faintly with the cws of something that had tried—and failed—to kill him.

  “Home sweet home…” The words came out dry, more habit than humor, but he said them anyway.

  He made his way straight to the basement.

  The forge welcomed him.

  Warm, bright, alive.

  He dropped his gear beside the anvil and staggered to the food he’d left behind—jerked meat and dried fruits. He ate like an animal, tearing into it with shaking hands, barely pausing to chew.

  When the edge of his hunger dulled, he turned to the bucket of water beside the forge.

  He undressed slowly, hissing as the fabric peeled away from his wounds. Bruises bloomed across his ribs. His arms were covered in scrapes. His thigh was a mess of torn skin.

  He washed them carefully.

  The water stung. Turned red.

  But when he wrapped himself in new bandages, he could already feel it—healing. Faster than it should. Flesh stitching itself back together, day by day, like this pce was feeding him strength.

  He didn’t understand it.

  But he would use it.

  Sleep came quick that night.

  No nightmares.

  For the first time since waking in the darkness, Nine slept without fear pressing down on his chest.

  And when he woke, he woke with purpose.

  He trained hard that morning.

  Harder than ever.

  The forge’s heat beat down on him as he moved through drills. His new sword sang through the air—light, swift, deadly. The dummies fell faster now. Each swing cleaner, sharper. He could feel the power in his arms, the precision in his footwork.

  “The tougher the enemy… the stronger I get…” He believed it now.

  Not just because of the physical change—though that was obvious. His chest was fuller, his shoulders more defined. His body no longer looked like it was starving. It looked honed. Like something built, not just endured.

  But the real change was in his eyes.

  They didn’t dart nervously anymore. They focused.

  And when he looked in the mirror across the forge—he didn’t see prey.

  He saw a hunter.

  The mansion stood quiet.

  Unmoving. Eternal.

  As Nine stepped through the gate and into the garden, the statues lining the path seemed to stare at him with new eyes. Not in judgment. Not in pity.

  But in silence. Recognition.

  The man who returned was not the same one who’d left.

  His legs barely held him upright. Blood crusted his clothes, dried bck across his arms and chest. His bandages were soaked. But he walked tall, sword sheathed at his back, pouch clinking faintly with the cws of something that had tried—and failed—to kill him.

  “Home sweet home…” The words came out dry, more habit than humor, but he said them anyway.

  He made his way straight to the basement.

  The forge welcomed him.

  Warm, bright, alive.

  He dropped his gear beside the anvil and staggered to the food he’d left behind—jerked meat and dried fruits. He ate like an animal, tearing into it with shaking hands, barely pausing to chew.

  When the edge of his hunger dulled, he turned to the bucket of water beside the forge.

  He undressed slowly, hissing as the fabric peeled away from his wounds. Bruises bloomed across his ribs. His arms were covered in scrapes. His thigh was a mess of torn skin.

  He washed them carefully.

  The water stung. Turned red.

  But when he wrapped himself in new bandages, he could already feel it—healing. Faster than it should. Flesh stitching itself back together, day by day, like this pce was feeding him strength.

  He didn’t understand it.

  But he would use it.

  Sleep came quick that night.

  No nightmares.

  For the first time since waking in the darkness, Nine slept without fear pressing down on his chest.

  And when he woke, he woke with purpose.

  He trained hard that morning.

  Harder than ever.

  The forge’s heat beat down on him as he moved through drills. His new sword sang through the air—light, swift, deadly. The dummies fell faster now. Each swing cleaner, sharper. He could feel the power in his arms, the precision in his footwork.

  “The tougher the enemy… the stronger I get…” He believed it now.

  Not just because of the physical change—though that was obvious. His chest was fuller, his shoulders more defined. His body no longer looked like it was starving. It looked honed. Like something built, not just endured.

  But the real change was in his eyes.

  They didn’t dart nervously anymore. They focused.

  And when he looked in the mirror across the forge—he didn’t see prey.

  He saw a hunter.

  The forge burned hotter today.

  Nine stood over the anvil, shirtless, arms glistening with sweat, muscles taut with purpose. The light from the magical fmes cast flickering shadows across his skin, making the scars, old and new, seem like warpaint etched into his flesh.

  He held one of the creature’s cws with a pair of tongs—long, bck, and curved like a sickle. It glimmered faintly in the light, unnaturally metallic.

  He brought it to the fme.

  The cw didn’t burn. It glowed.

  Pulsed.

  He took another cw, then a pair of the jagged teeth, and id them on the forge stone. Together, they hummed faintly, like they recognized each other.

  He didn’t know metallurgy.

  But something about this pce… guided him. Not with voices or visions. Just instinct.

  He hammered slowly at first—fttening one cw into a curve, working it into a bracer. The other he reforged into a new bde—not rge, but wickedly sharp. It was jagged and dark, somewhere between a knife and a hook, with the creature’s tooth set into the pommel like a trophy.

  He strapped the bracer to his left arm. Sheathed the cw-knife on his hip.

  He wasn’t armored—not truly. But now, at least, he had teeth of his own.

  “Let’s see how you monsters like it…” He trained again that day, faster, harder.

  Sword strikes came smoother now—he could swing without overextending, recover without stumbling. His footwork was tighter. His aim cleaner. The sword was no longer something he used. It was part of him.

  He even practiced with the cw-knife—short sshes, reverse grips, off-hand counters. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t pretty.

  But it would kill.

  And that was enough.

  When he set off for the cave again, he walked with confidence.

  The forest, once a maze of shadows and whispers, now felt like territory. Like his.

  He moved through it like a hunter, silent and alert.

  He didn’t sneak past the dograts this time.

  He killed them—cleanly.

  One swing. One slice.

  Their blood never even reached his boots.

  He reached the mouth of the wolf cave again and paused—just for a moment. Breathing steady. Mind clear.

  “Time to see what they’ve been hiding.” The cave greeted him with silence.

  But not the kind that comforted.

  The kind that waited.

  Nine stepped past the familiar crystals embedded in the walls—those faintly glowing blue shards, their light dancing across the tunnel like moonlight on water. The deeper he went, the more it felt like the cave wasn’t just a pce—but something alive.

  And it remembered him.

  He passed the choke-point—a narrow gap just wide enough for wolves to slip through, just tight enough to funnel intruders. He squeezed through, sword drawn, bracer ready, heart steady.

  Two paths.

  Left or right.

  He chose left.

  The passage opened up into a chamber the size of a cathedral.

  A natural hollow, but somehow… deliberate. In the center y a wide pool, fed by the slow, rhythmic dripping of golden crystal drops from the ceiling above. The light danced across the water, turning it to liquid gold. It shimmered. Inviting. Dangerous.

  He knelt. Sipped.

  Warm. Sweet. Energizing.

  But he didn’t linger.

  A tunnel waited at the far end.

  And he knew, even before he heard it—something moved within.

  Footsteps.

  Heavy. Rapid.

  Not human.

  Nine pressed himself to the wall, bde lifted, knees bent.

  A shadow flickered at the tunnel mouth.

  Then—a wolf’s face emerged.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  He exploded forward, sword swinging from high to low.

  Steel kissed flesh.

  The wolf's head split, face peeling open like a flower of blood.

  One down.

  He stepped into the tunnel.

  Four more.

  They were already moving—but too te.

  Nine lunged at the nearest, cleaving deep into its face. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed.

  The others reacted, snarling, circling—but he didn’t wait. He stepped into them.

  He swung low and wide—cutting across one’s chest, then pivoted, sshing upward as another lunged.

  Precision. Timing. Practice.

  He was faster. Not perfect. But better.

  One wolf ducked under his bde—he countered with his bracer, catching its snout and smming it aside.

  Another came from the left—he rolled, bde dragging through its fnk as he passed.

  Then he slipped.

  Blood. Guts. Wet stone.

  His foot gave out, and he hit the floor hard, pain fshing through his shoulder.

  One wolf pounced.

  Nine turned mid-fall, thrusting upward with everything he had—spear-style.

  The bde sank deep into the beast’s chest. Its weight smmed onto him, jaws snapping once, twice—then went still.

  His arm screamed. The wolf was heavy.

  He couldn’t move in time.

  Another wolf waited. Watching.

  He stilled himself.

  Held his breath.

  Pretended to be dead.

  Minutes passed. Long. Tense. Then—sniffing.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  The moment the sound was above him—he struck.

  Letter knife. Close. Brutal.

  The bde punched into the eye. The wolf shrieked. Reared.

  He shoved the corpse off, rolled, and went low.

  One strike.

  Right across the throat.

  It dropped.

  Silence fell.

  Five wolves.

  Dead.

  He stood there, heaving, soaked in gore. The floor around him was a massacre—blood pooled between the crystals, guts smeared across stone.

  “Day ago I couldn’t even handle three…” He wasn’t smiling.

  He wasn’t cocky.

  But the fire in his chest was real.

  He moved on.

  And then… he saw it.

  The passage led down. Deep. Sloping.

  Until it opened into a colossal cavern.

  So rge it might as well have been its own world.

  Dens carved into the stone like homes. Packs of wolves moving in patterns, patrolling, guarding. The walls were fortified with massive bone-reinforced barricades. Above them—towers. Structures. Watchpoints.

  And in the center…

  A monster.

  Larger than any creature Nine had seen. Its fur bck as pitch, its eyes glowing like twin coals. Muscles rippled with each breath. Fangs the length of daggers. Chains of bone wrapped around its limbs, like it had broken free from some ancient prison and never stopped growing.

  A Fenrir.

  Around it stood the intelligent ones—the human-wolves. Dozens. Maybe more.

  Nine stared in stunned silence.

  A city of beasts.

  An army.

  “My god…” There was no way he could fight them now.

  No strategy. No chance.

  But there were other tunnels. Other routes. Other pces to strike.

  He began to count the patterns. How many wolves. Where they moved. Who left. Who returned.

  He was already pnning.

  Already hunting.

  “I can kill the small ones… weaken them…” “Get stronger.” He turned away, sword still dripping blood, and walked back through the tunnel.

  Tomorrow, he would start thinning the pack.

  Tomorrow, the wolves would start dying.

  One.

  By.

  One.